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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23594782">Les animaux sont dans l’homme</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm'>TheLifeOfEmm</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - Victor Hugo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blindfolds, Daemon Touching, Enemies to Lovers, Javert Lives, Kissing, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Seine, Suicide Attempt, The daemons are the only one with any sense, Time Skips, Too many falconry metaphors, Valjean has PTSD</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:01:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,572</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23594782</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Animals are nothing but the portrayal of our virtues and vices made manifest to our eyes, the visible reflections of our souls.”</i><br/>- Victor Hugo, <i>Les Misérables</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Javert/Jean Valjean</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>135</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuizlaziai/gifts">Nuizlaziai</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A gift for Nuizlaziai. Happy birthday!!! </p>
<p>Fist bump for our mutually quarantined birthdays--I know this can't make up for everything going on in the world right now, but I hope it can help a little. &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Javert stood near the quay, a silhouette leaning upon the balustrade which overlooked the Seine. The mein he wore was somber, the brim of his hat throwing deep shadows over his eyes such as would have rendered him a skull-like visage to any passerby. Yet the quay was deserted, the night a vast expanse of nothingness weighing on a mind already troubled. The Inspector’s hands clasped loosely behind his back, speaking as plainly to his uncertainty as any word he might have cared to express aloud. </p><p>Beside him on the parapet was another, smaller figure. When Javert did not break his silence, but merely gazed down at the swollen rapids, the figure spoke.</p><p>“Javert, this is madness.”</p><p>Still the man did not answer, and the goshawk ruffled her feathers in agitation. </p><p>“Have you taken leave of your senses? We must return to Rue de l’Homme Armé at once.”</p><p>With a sigh as of granite boulders grinding, Javert raised his eyes to the dark outline of Notre-Dame in the distance.</p><p>“I cannot,” he said solemnly. It was the first words he had spoken to her since releasing the dead insurgent into the custody of his household. </p><p>With the selfsame agitation, the daemon at his side pecked her beak against the stone railing. </p><p>“The galley-slave will escape. Do you mean to permit it?”</p><p>It occurred to Javert that he was trembling, the hands in his gauntlets wringing with anguish.</p><p>Faintly, he said, “I must.”</p><p>For a time, the silence returned, and the only sound was the rushing of the waters below.</p><p>At last, the daemon spoke again. “Very well, then you must.”</p><p>Javert was surprised of that, for the goshawk was a vicious hunter; the Inspector could not remember a time when she had willfully released her quarry, not even when faced with daemons much larger than herself. </p><p>But Javert made no comment, and the bird continued, “You might speak to him, at least.”</p><p>“There is nothing to speak of.”</p><p>“Is there not?”</p><p>Javert thought of the sewer and shuddered. Jean Valjean had done him a favor—better for them all had he shot the spy in back of Rue Mondétour. Instead Javert returned Valjean’s favor, and now had seemingly released the man to his own devices. No, there was nothing to speak of.</p><p>Unhappily, the goshawk said, “These black thoughts do not suit you. Come away from here. Let us go back to our rooms and rest. In the morning, perhaps, you will see some sense.”</p><p>“Sense?” Javert repeated, a guttural laugh building in his throat which threatened on the verge of hysterics. “There is no sense in this. I am degraded. He is exalted. A convict, above the law!”</p><p>“More plainly, then.” The bird’s crimson eyes stared up at him unblinkingly; Javert in his distraction had not replaced her hood after their foiled hunt at Pont d’Iena. “Your intentions in coming here were transparent. I say now that I have no desire to follow you into the abyss, not when there remain plenty of rats still to devour—like that scoundrel, Thénardier. If you do this, we will be separated.”</p><p>“Go from here, Vidette,” Javert said softly. He no longer trembled, though every morose reflection struck him through like a hammer blow. He was ice, melted—infallibility, erred. There was but one path forward he could take, and it led over a precipice.</p><p>Yet the daemon was not through with him. “What was that?” she demanded, her sharp nails tapping as she paced the stone.</p><p>“Go.” Javert’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a terrible, snarling smile. “My soul does not wish to join me in Hell? Very well. Leave this place, and when I jump you will not be tempted to follow.”</p><p>The goshawk reared back, her banded feathers flattening against her head as though she might hiss and bite at his gloved hand. </p><p>“You are mad,” Vidette repeated. “You will kill us both, and I shall not forgive you for it.”</p><p>“Nor should you.” </p><p>Clicking her beak in apparent disgust, Vidette leapt from the railing into the air. She circled once, twice, her wings cutting the starless sky like a knife, before she disappeared over Paris. Not once did the Inspector raise his eyes from the foaming river. Still, he was keenly aware of her leaving even as she passed above the rooftops, a jess more real and tangible a tether than any cord tugging insistently on his heart. The farther she flew, the worse it twisted, like something essential Tearing in his breast. In minutes, the need to follow would become unbearable, his body and spirit in agony at her loss.</p><p>But when Javert presently began to walk, it was not in the same direction as his prodigal soul. Rather, he quit the parapet to make for the end of the Place du Châtelet, and the station house there. Each step was a torment; with every footfall, more of his self, his sanity, came unspooled. Nevertheless, Javert walked, dogged but determined, and held to his course. By the time he reached the door, his breath was running ragged—but he did reach it.</p><p>Entering, the Inspector wrote, signed, and sealed a brief missive; this accomplished, he returned to the same point on the quay and removed his hat. Merely a quarter-hour had transpired since his daemon took her flight of him. It was with little doubt the darkest and most terrible quarter-hour of the man’s life. </p><p>Mechanically, Javert set his hat upon the parapet and hauled himself up beside it. For long moments, he stood there, teetering over the void. What thoughts passed through his head, there was no telling. It could only be said that his expression did not change in the slightest as the Inspector stepped forward off the ledge. </p><p>There was a beat, followed by a single splash, and nothing more.</p><p>The parapet stood empty but for a hat.</p><hr/><p>
  <em> 1802 </em>
</p><p>In summer, the heat was stifling, the southern sun undeterred even by wind off the sea. Indoors, it was nigh intolerable as the close press of bodies turned the air sticky and rank. The guard station offered some brief respite from the rest of the populace, but it was not for anything so trivial as his own comfort that Javert made an appearance.</p><p>Clanking chains rattled the air, their clamor increasing the usual cacophony of the prison hulks amid the groaning of men, the sharp bark of the guards, the whimper or snarl of a daemon put back in its place. Javert watched the operation unfolding in front of him with a cool disdain that belied his younger years—whether they wore red or blue, no man in the galleys could mistake the flinty-eyed adjunct guard for soft. In one hand, he carried a baton. The other wore a thick leather gauntlet, which was held rigidly in the region of his chest. </p><p>The reason for it was immediately apparent: the guard’s arm was the perch for a bird of prey with charcoal on her back and thin bands of the same color striping her front. Large yellow feet gripped the glove, her talons digging into the leather for purchase. </p><p>“A foolish thing to try,” the daemon hissed. Across the room, guards were still fitting the prisoner with new manacles, but Vidette’s words were not for them.</p><p>“Yes,” Javert agreed. He murmured from the corner of his mouth, equally as inaudible to the others over the noise. </p><p>“And painful, I am sure.”</p><p>Javert did not reply, allowing the pronouncement to stand as it was. This convict had attempted escape, breaking free of his shackles by means of a file and scaling the wall to the shipyard. Within hours, he was discovered hiding under a galley still in its early stages of construction. </p><p>The convict had abandoned his daemon on the other side of the wall.</p><p>It was with no little shame that Javert remembered the early days of his admission to the watch, when he first began the unpleasant task of training his daemon to leave him. It was true that Vidette was useful as a second pair of eyes, her vision sharper and more discerning than any man’s, and she did not have to fly far to pinpoint the location of a target for acquisition. Yet soon this proved insufficient—it was not enough for Javert to merely locate, not when they needed to apprehend as well. And so the pair began to practice, every day Vidette stretching the limits of their bond a little farther. </p><p>It was exhausting, painful work for both of them, and Javert was not proud to admit that the effort had on occasion brought stinging tears to his eyes as he felt the goshawk’s suffering echo back across their connection. But by dint of discipline and practice, it was less than a year before their range was extended; then the young man could not fail to attract the notice of his betters, not when his daemon was capable of flying swiftly ahead to harry and dive at the animal companion of any brigand, holding the creature—and therefore the man—captive until gendarmes could arrive with chains. A neat system, and one that enabled him to claw his way out of the gutter.</p><p>For this prisoner to leave his daemon behind without the benefit of such discipline was so grossly incorrect that Javert could not find words for his revulsion.</p><p>The prisoner, a thief named in the ledger as <em> 24,601</em>, would receive five additional years on his sentence for the attempt. He had resisted the guards who seized him, for which he and his daemon would spend two of those years wearing the double chain. It was this that the guards were fastening into place: a punitive device, twice the weight of the shackles such prisoners usually wore. It was bound to an iron circlet around the thief’s ankle, the other end fastening to a similar band above the paw of his daemon.</p><p>When Javert turned his eye toward the creature, his lip curled in contempt. It was a great, hulking mass of fur which hovered balefully at the prisoner’s side, beady eyes turned toward the ground. A bear—and a more fitting beast Javert could not conceive of to encompass the nature of this brute of a man. The powerful body, the scythe-like claws and gnashing teeth—it was right that such a monster belong to the one the bagnards called Jean-le-Cric. </p><p>The daemon’s fur was coarse and matted. Its front paws were kept joined by a shorter chain to prevent it razing a guard if it stood up on hind legs. In color, Javert supposed the bear was brown, though the cling of dust and sweat and mud made it impossible to be certain. A muzzle bound its snout, suppressing any inclination to snap at the men attending it. If the muzzle also happened to hamper the daemon’s speech, then Javert could consider that nothing short of an improvement. He had heard enough of the bear’s lowing moans to last a lifetime.</p><p>All told, the beast was certainly quite repellent. Nevertheless, it was as much a part of the prisoner before him as the man’s right hand. To leave it behind for the sake of an ill-plotted escape was evidence of the thoughtless desperation native to the criminal element. An upright man knew such efforts were doomed to failure—either by the despair of separation, or by a premature death when distance finally Tore body and soul asunder. </p><p>Javert’s mouth quirked at the thought; now that the two were chained together thus, even a suicide by Tearing would not release them from just punishment. In short order they would be led back to the salle, there to remain. The pair would be tethered to a bedpost until two years were up, with none for company but those others confined to the double chain. Perhaps in that time the thief would learn better than to flee his fate, though Javert doubted it. Such men were little more than beasts themselves, wild and unrighteous. No, if Javert were asked, he would submit his opinion that 24,601 was not through with running.</p><p>Outside the guard station, work crews marched slowly by in single file lines. Then, a disruption—two prisoners, a murderer and a forger known in the bagne for a fierce hatred of one another, passed in opposite directions. A squabble broke out almost immediately as the forger’s mongoose daemon sprang at the other’s adder, hissing and spitting where they writhed together on the floor. Vidette’s head swiveled in their direction, the bird’s instincts narrowing in on the quarrel. Javert was flooded with her hunger for the hunt, the urge to trap and tear and devour washing over him in waves. The room was too bright, too vivid with detail, as the goshawk’s vision blurred with his own. </p><p>“Hush,” Javert murmured, stroking a hand down his daemon’s back. He could feel it as she reigned herself in, though the desire to pounce did not fade from their shared consciousness. </p><p>Slipping his fingers into his coat pocket, Javert withdrew a leather hood. He had crafted it himself, cutting the material to size so that it slid precisely over Vidette’s eyes. At once, the goshawk relaxed, and though Javert held himself as stiffly as ever, he perceived some of the tension draining from his own posture. The bagne of Toulon was chaotic for them both.</p><p>On the other side of the room, the guards finished their work. Between them, the thief stood with his head lowered sullenly, his bear subdued in the background. They removed the man quickly from the room, and he went without protest. Javert would not see him again for a long time after that, but he never forgot.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Night had long since fallen over Paris but Jean Valjean did not retire to bed. Instead, he sat in his armchair, gazing blankly through the window, which he did not trouble himself to shut against the evening air. The wisp of breeze brought with it the cloying smell of gunpowder, a reminder of the violence wrought across the city like a grim and deathly incense. In the corner, Estée sat hunched with her paws tucked underneath her bulk. Neither one of them spoke.</p><p>How long had it been since he looked out from the bedroom to find Javert gone, the street empty of the man and the carriage which had borne them hither? It felt like hours, throughout which Valjean sank deeper and deeper into the defeated fuge which threatened to claim him; in reality, it had not been nearly so long at all. At every small noise, he anticipated the policeman’s return, no doubt parading a regiment of armed soldiers behind him. Valjean would not make a scene. He would go quietly, as he had promised.</p><p>From the corner came Estée’s muted snuffle of regret. Valjean ached for her—was that selfish? to ache for one’s own soul? But she was separate from himself, her own creature, and it pained Valjean to know she was hurting. Upstairs, Cosette slept with her songbird nestled in her hair, heedless to all that which had come to pass. If Valjean were very fortunate, she would remain heedless, save for the explanation which was contained in the letter now folded on the dining table. </p><p>The worst would be when they shackled his wrists. After that, numbness would claim him entirely.</p><p>Exhaling a shaky breath, Valjean raised his eyes to the sky. A thick fume of clouds had rolled in while Valjean navigated the sewers, and had not dissipated. It obscured the stars, turning the world utterly black. Even the streetlights were gone out, smashed more than a day before by a small urchin with a pebble. Of course, it would not do to dwell on him, either; all the death in recent hours left Valjean’s heart ragged, wrung out as blood was wrung from a shirt.</p><p>A shape in the air attracted his attention, a blot upon the clouds which was noticeable only as it was darker even than the sky behind it. As he watched, it grew larger; then in a thunderclap Valjean understood, and he staggered to his feet as all his calm resolve evaporated in the face of his terror reigniting like a torch. Briefly, the idea ran through his mind to shutter and bar the windows, but as Javert’s goshawk swooped low over the cobblestone street, Valjean knew it was no use. If the daemon were here, then the man would not be far behind her. Valjean was weary of running.</p><p>With a screeching cry, the bird alighted on the windowsill, her wings flaring open like a terrible harpy in the Plutonian night. Valjean’s heart quavered, but he swallowed back his fear.</p><p>“Ah, Vidette,” he said, bowing his head. “As you can see, I have not run. I assure you, we will -”</p><p>“Valjean,” Vidette interrupted. </p><p>The man started at that, for he was not certain the daemon had ever deigned to address him directly, much less by name. He frowned, taking in the way her chest heaved with exertion, the strain in her voice, the tremors which ran up and down her wings even now as she folded them to her back. An emotion not unlike concern rose in his throat, before Valjean remembered to whom he was speaking.</p><p>Fixing him with the piercing glare of the hunter, Vidette said, “I have come to appeal to your generosity, whatever of it may be left.”</p><p>Valjean stared. Behind him, he was dimly aware of Estée getting to her feet, but his astonished eyes were fixed upon the bird in the window frame. Though the words had passed through his ears, in hearing them they lost all meaning. Certainly it was a mistake. Certainly he had misunderstood. In no known world could Valjean conceive of the Inspector’s daemon coming to him for aid.</p><p>Bewildered beyond measure, Valjean took a hesitant step forward. “Vidette,” he began, “where is Javert? Why is he not with you?”</p><p>The goshawk tossed her head, running her beak over her feathers in apparent distress before meeting his eyes again. </p><p>“He has gone to the river,” she replied. “I was not able to stop him—he will not hear sense.”</p><p>“What are you saying?” Valjean asked, his hands creeping up to clutch at his arms. A great mantle of foreboding was settling over his shoulders, putting a chill in his blood.</p><p>“I believe Javert means to take our life.” There was no disguising the raw anguish in the daemon’s voice as she continued, “You spared us, before. You must have had some reason. If it is still your desire to see him live, then follow me, quickly.”</p><p>Vidette took off in a great rush of feathers, leaving the man to make his choice. At first, Valjean was too stunned even to move, as everything he thought he knew about the Inspector was overthrown. Not until Estée nudged him with her snout did he realize he was still standing there, wasting precious seconds while a man’s life hung on a thread. The thought never once crossed his mind that it might be a trick, an elaborate ploy designed to more thoroughly entrap him. Valjean merely staggered out of the house as fast as his unsteady legs would carry him.</p><p>The street seemed suddenly a wild and hostile place, its twisting labyrinth of alleys and cross-streets conspiring to lead him away from the river rather than towards it. Looking around, he beheld Vidette perched on the shattered street lamp, and he hastened at once to her side.</p><p>“I cannot fly through the air, as you do,” he warned. “And the path on foot is not so clear-cut.”</p><p>Vidette only clucked with impatience. “I know the shortest way. Now hurry!”</p><p>The goshawk leapt back into the air, gliding on wings outstretched down one end of Rue de l’Homme Armé. Valjean sprinted after her, despite the fatigue turning his knees to water. He was not recovered from the long trek through the sewer, nor the quagmire of the fontis, but what of it? The Inspector could not wait upon him to rest; surely Vidette would never have come were it not in the utmost of need.</p><p>As he ran, the hard packed stone pounding under his feet, Valjean recognized their path as the one leading towards the Quai des Ormes. Vidette veered to the left, and Valjean followed, skidding down a narrow side street. Estée brought up the rear, the stone walls pressing in too narrowly for her to run at Valjean’s side. Her loping gait could quickly have outpaced his, but there was little use in that. Even if she reached the Inspector first, she could not touch him.</p><p>Skirting the quay, they passed the Grève only to emerge near Place du Châtelet. Ahead was the river, a winding snake that cleft in two the heart of Paris. A long stone parapet bordered the embankment above the water, and standing on it—</p><p>Valjean raised his hand, a cry on his lips, but already Javert was tipping forward into empty air. Above, Vidette faltered mid-flight, her wing beats erratic as she spiraled in dizzied geometries towards the ground. Skill did not seem to avail her; the goshawk tumbled out of the sky until she struck the cobblestones with a sickening thud. At the same moment, there came a heavy splash from the direction of the Seine.</p><p>Valjean ran to the parapet. There was no sign of the Inspector anywhere in the roiling waters below.</p><p>“Estée,” he said hoarsely. “Is she -?”</p><p>He could not bring himself to finish the sentence, even as his daemon padded over to nuzzle gently at the crumpled bird. </p><p>Softly, the bear replied, “They are not dead.” Valjean began plucking at the buttons of his waistcoat. “But she is fading. You have a few minutes, little more.” </p><p>“It will be enough,” said Valjean, dropping his waistcoat and starting on the cravat.</p><p>“What will you do?” </p><p>Estée gazed at him steadily until Valjean was forced to look away. It was obvious to them both what had to be done, there was no point in discussing it. He was still stunned; some part of him had not believed Vidette’s story was true until the evidence became irrefutable. </p><p>When Valjean climbed onto the parapet wall, the bear spoke again.</p><p>“The rapids -”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Valjean looked back over his shoulder to see Estée settle herself in to wait. She curled around Vidette as though the goshawk were a bedraggled cub, sheltering her from any stranger that might pass by. Valjean nodded, and Estée dipped her head in return. Perhaps he went to their deaths, and her sweet face would be the last thing he ever saw.</p><p>Straightening, Valjean drew in a deep lungful of air. Then he bent his knees forward, and dived.</p><hr/><p>
  <em> June 6, 1832 </em>
</p><p>A hand guided Javert past the small barrier of rubble and into the alley. His captor’s grip on the rope was uncompromising, which was well. Javert was not interested in compromise. </p><p>Their path led them past the body of a dead girl, deeper into the alley’s gloom. When they were far enough removed from the fighting that the sound of gunfire was reduced to a dull roar, the hand pushed him firmly onto his knees. Javert raised his head as much as the noose would allow to take in the figures standing over him; the face of Jean Valjean gave nothing away as he holstered the student’s pistol.</p><p>“So,” the Inspector snarled. “Now you take your revenge.”</p><p>Behind the convict stood the bear, taller than him at the shoulder and broad across as an ox-cart. Its eyes glinted with malice in the low light, and in its mouth, there dangled the limp form of Vidette. She did not struggle because Javert did not struggle—both of them knew that the chase was at an end. </p><p>The Inspector could feel the press of the bear’s incisors as surely as though they were closed around his own ribs. One flash of teeth, and it would be over, his daemon crushed between its jaws. He had seen men killed that way, in Toulon and in the streets. To feel one’s daemon die—there was no worse way to perish, no more dishonorable means of dispatching a victim. The pain of it was said to be beyond endurance.</p><p>Stonily, Javert looked Valjean in the eye. “Tell your daemon to release its hold, unless you haven’t the nerve to kill me yourself.”</p><p>Utterly unreadable, Valjean raised his hand. “Estée,” he began, and the bear padded forward. </p><p>Javert stiffened as the beast drew near. Its hot breath wafted over his face, and he wondered briefly if perhaps Valjean meant him to watch his own daemon be slaughtered, but then the bear lowered its head and deposited Vidette on the ground. She glared up at him, unable to rise; the little gamin’s capuchin had tied her well. Like that, the bear withdrew, lumbering over to where even now, Valjean was withdrawing a blade from his pocket.</p><p>“Ah, a knife.” Javert bit out a laugh. He had it wrong before; of course Valjean would not desire for him a quick death. “You are right. That suits you better.”</p><p>Stalking forward, Valjean crouched before him, seizing the rope around his neck. Javert met his gaze squarely, though his pulse fluttered high and fast in his throat—like a bird, came the vague thought. He waited patiently for the cold scrape of steel, a fair revenge some decades in the making. Instead, the blade of the surin did not so much as knick his skin as Valjean’s hand worked vigorously to saw through the martingale. </p><p>Stupefied, Javert could only stare in disbelief as his bonds were cut away, first the noose and then the knots at his wrists. When the devil’s work was finished, Valjean stood, returning to the bear’s side. “You are free,” he said quietly.</p><p>The Inspector gaped. So great was his astonishment that his hands did not even move to release his daemon, which ought to have been the first instinct of any man held thus in bondage. A terrible transfiguration was occurring within him.</p><p>Rue Mondétour presided over this unfortunate collection of souls, as lifeless as a churchyard. Against one wall, Javert crouched in dismay; beside the other, Valjean leaned his forehead upon Estée’s solid mass. The pair seemed to share a silent commune of spirit before the man straightened once more.</p><p>“If we should live to escape this place, you will find us at Rue de l’Homme Armé, number seven.” There was a sadness in the way he spoke, a resignation the Inspector could not stomach.</p><p>“Have a care,” Javert said through his teeth. </p><p>“Go,” Valjean repeated.</p><p>Bundling Vidette into his arms, Javert staggered to his feet. In the absence of the ropes, his skin seemed to crawl with pricking needles, his calves and shoulders aching from the long night spent tied to a post. Vidette trembled against him, exhausted. Mouth turning in a scowl, Javert picked apart the knots holding her fast. The insurgents had trussed her up like a game bird—the indignity of it galled him. </p><p>When she was free, Vidette clawed her way upright, wings beating against Javert’s breast as she got her bearings. It was only the result of the daemon’s superior training that she clung to his forearm instead of scrabbling for the higher, safer perch of his shoulder. She sat there hunched and huddled, straightening her feathers almost as an afterthought. Javert supposed she was shaken by the same cataclysm, the aftershocks of which still accosted him.</p><p>Down the alley, Valjean observed silently. The pistol was returned to his fist, but remained lowered at his side. </p><p>Javert drew himself up to his full height. He gathered what he had left of venom and pride, and spat, “You annoy me. Kill me, rather.”</p><p>With an almost gloomy levity, Valjean said simply, “Be off with you.”</p><p>Slowly, as if in spite of himself, the Inspector began to back away. Nevertheless, he flinched—flinched!—with the sudden report of the pistol. Some moments passed before he realized the sound had come from Valjean’s weapon, pointed harmlessly at the sky. </p><p>It was then that Javert fled.</p><p>Running blind in the direction of Les Halles, a specter dogged at his foot-heels; a specter of death, perhaps—his death, wrongfully denied him. He had no purpose, no knowledge of where to go, save for an address committed to memory: Rue de l’Homme Armé, number seven. </p><p>“Javert,” Vidette hissed in his ear. “If you leave now, we may never have another chance -”</p><p>“Enough,” Javert interjected. </p><p>He was scarcely aware of what he was saying, yet Vidette did not protest further. That was peculiar in and of itself. Instead she jumped into the air, gliding above as Javert’s every step distanced them from the barricade, and the thief who had proven their savior.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Vidette briefly expresses a sentiment towards the end of this chapter that could possibly be construed as ableist, because I believe it is one Javert would apply towards himself. Obviously, this does not reflect the opinions of the author.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The silence of the bedroom was all but unbearable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Under the thin linen sheets, Javert lay like a facsimile of himself, and a poor one at that. His face was pale, his lips bloodless. His eyes moved rapidly behind his eyelids, but he did not open them. On the pillow, his hair fanned out, still damp with the Seine’s filth. The doctor’s prognosis had been unhelpful at best; there was fluid in the Inspector’s lungs, he said, and there was no telling whether the man would survive the night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of Vidette, the doctor’s impersonal examination was equally dire. Her life was tied to Javert’s—and should they both pull through, there would remain the question of her wing. She had broken it in her fall; even Valjean’s untrained eye could see that the way it stuck out was unnatural. Without laying so much as a finger on the creature, the doctor declared that the goshawk would never fly again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now they were alone, the four of them. The bedroom, not spacious to begin with, felt downright cramped with the floor occupied by Valjean’s armchair and the brown bear’s bulk. Valjean sat in his seat with his head in his hands. In one fist, he clenched his rosary so tightly the beads left divets in his skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What am I to do, Estée?” he asked when the bear nosed at his leg.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The right thing,” she replied. It was her habit to sit with her paws the size of spades crossed primly in front of her. “What would you have wanted, were our positions reversed?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Valjean laughed, a choked, wet sound. “The Inspector would have left me to the river,” he muttered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” The bear’s gaze weighed on him like a stone, and in his heart Valjean knew she was right. After all, Javert had not arrested him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is not that simple.” Setting down his rosary, Valjean rubbed his face instead. “The bond between daemon and man is sacrosanct. If I touch her...” He shook his head. “Javert will never forgive the violation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Estée grunted, a small, dissatisfied sound. “If you do not, will you forgive yourself?” she asked. “You could save them both a world of suffering.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Valjean looked at where Vidette lay motionless on the washstand. With Estée’s help, he had brought them both inside, the bird carried in the bear’s mouth as delicately as a babe. When Javert was dealt with, dried and changed as well as Valjean was able, he had laid out a bundle of clean cloths. There Estée had deposited the Inspector’s daemon, a warm nest the only comfort they could offer. A nest—and perhaps this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Glancing at where the Inspector lay in a feverish slumber, Valjean rose from his chair. He padded quickly across the room, lest he change his mind. Vidette’s breath came in short pants, her feathers pitiably ruffled. Valjean had never seen the goshawk look so helpless—nor Javert, for that matter. There was something deeply wrong in it, as though the sun had suddenly elected to rise from the west. At her side, the goshawk’s wing was outstretched. By the look of it, a bone was broken close to the shoulder—a clean break, Valjean hoped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His face was tight, but his voice stayed steady as he said aloud, “I will need bandages.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Estée watched him retrieve a roll from the hall cupboard; she was as little inclined towards speech as Valjean himself, but it took the edge off his frayed nerves to know that she was by his side. The bond they shared was profound, a gift from God, he might have called it. For that reason, Valjean had to do this—neither Javert nor Vidette deserved to live out the rest of their days haunted by the memory of one fell mistake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time he returned to the washstand, Valjean’s hands were shaking. He set the bandages on the surface and took a deep breath, but far from calming him, the air hitched in his throat. It was a long time—nearly a decade—since anyone had laid hands on his daemon, but that was a scar which ran deeper than any that marked his back. Such a little thing, to set a bone and secure it safely. Yet in it, Valjean felt the dreadful echoes of belonging body and soul to the whim of the state, the imprint of all the hands which had ever come at his daemon with chains. Who was he helping, if in carrying on, he hurt Javert just as badly?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Praying fervently for the man’s forgiveness, Valjean reached out and closed his fingers over Vidette’s feathered wing. Immediately, he overheard a low moan of pain; looking back, Valjean caught sight of the Inspector’s expression twisted into a grimace, though his eyes remained firmly closed with sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Peace,” Valjean murmured in the same tone he had often used to soothe his daughter. “I mean you no harm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tried to let the truth of his words sink through his skin into his ministrations as Valjean carefully folded the appendage along its natural joint. It struck him as odd how soft were the goshawk’s feathers; somehow, Valjean had always conceived of them as being cut from steel. Slowly, he moved the wing into position, careful not to jostle the break any more than he had to. Even so, he was aware of Javert turning over behind him, a muffled litany of pained noises spilling from his lips. Were the Inspector aware of his surroundings, he would never have allowed himself such a display, thinking it a weakness. Valjean did not think him weak at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though he lightened his touch as much as he could, there was no keeping his hands entirely clear of Vidette’s body as Valjean bound the broken wing to her side, wrapping the bandages snugly, but not too tight. He could feel her heartbeat racing under his fingertips, and once more he murmured whatever quiet, reassuring words came to mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unsure it had helped, Valjean rearranged the cloth nest until the goshawk rested more securely. Only then did he step back, feeling his palms tingle with the phantom caress of feathers. If he had done his work well, and Vidette were very fortunate, then in time the break would heal and she would recover her flight. There was little worse than being trapped; Valjean would wish such a thing on no-one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was turning to attend to other matters—a water pitcher ought to be brought for the Inspector, and perhaps a cup of tea for his own nerves—when Valjean felt the unmistakable chill of being watched. Lifting his head, he beheld a single fiery crescent, the goshawk’s eye half-lidded but awake. Valjean could not say what was in her gaze; not gratitude, certainly, but neither was it loathing. Even so, he froze under it, as one might whose soul took the shape of a mouse. For a long moment, she looked upon him thus.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, her eyelid slid shut, and the daemon gave way to unconsciousness.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Blood pounded in Javert’s ears, the potent mixture of anger and shame leaving him trembling. In truth, it took little to make him tremble of late; his lungs were weak, it winded him even to sit upright, and to stand was out of the question. Yet that had not prevented him from hurling the water glass at the back of the door as Valjean shut it—softly, rather than slam it as Javert rightfully deserved. Now there was a scattered pile of glass shards on the floorboards, and Valjean would clean the mess himself when he later returned to check on the health of his ungrateful charge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The object of their argument was perched on the washstand, eyeing Javert with a gaze that prickled intensely with judgement. The Inspector did not look at her, waiting for his anger to curdle into something cold and hard and lasting. To call their exchange an argument was even an exaggeration; Javert had shouted accusations, and Valjean had borne their onslaught, each strained apology shrinking into the next until he stood there like a tree weathering a storm, wooden and silent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps that should have been a sign Javert had carried matters too far. Yet it had finally occurred to him, in the clarity which accompanied his fever’s breaking, that the bandages his goshawk wore had to have been put there by someone other than himself. It did not take much speculation to guess who.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fingers tightening in the bedsheets, Javert’s skin crawled with revulsion at the very thought. Over and over, he searched his memory for any scrap of recollection; how could he have let slip a convict putting his hands all over his daemon? Yet it seemed that his mind was infected with the river’s murk, for all of his memories since that night were reduced to shapeless, shadowy things. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It would have been better if he could recall the glimmer of a gloating smile or a condescending word; maybe then he would feel justified in his actions, instead of frowning as the first dull pangs of guilt lodged in his stomach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Across the room, Vidette straightened, ruffling her feathers. “So,” she said dryly. “Are you through acting like a child?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Javert’s jaw tightened. “I do not know what you mean,” he grit out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please.” The goshawk scratched her head with one foot. “This petulance does not suit you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Petulance,” Javert repeated tonelessly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vidette looked at him pointedly until Javert was forced to turn his head away. “You are deliberately seeking an excuse to fight. Such behavior is unbecoming.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He touched you,” the Inspector growled, burying his hands in the bristles that lined his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He did,” the daemon agreed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is forbidden -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And do you know what I would be if he hadn’t?” Vidette interrupted. When Javert did not reply, she answered herself viciously. “Crippled—like some prey animal living on the ground! That is no life for a hunter of the skies. I should have been miserable, and so would have you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With every word, the Inspector’s sense of reproach magnified until it sat in his gut like a stone. Valjean had no business dragging him out of the Seine, but he had. Even Javert’s own body betrayed him, clinging stubbornly to life when what he most desired was the blankness of oblivion. It was better to curse Valjean for it, better than to face the swirling cacophony of thoughts which first drove him to the river’s edge, and which it seemed he now had no choice but to live with. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are crueler things that man might have done than bind my wing, if he had truly meant us harm,” Vidette told him, her tone sinking into something pensive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quietly, Javert replied, “I would rather that he had.” For it was easier to rage against Valjean’s overstep than it was to acknowledge how, daemon aside, the man seemed to hold the Inspector’s spirit in a grip like a vice; what was he to make of this recidivist who was also a saint?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah,” said Vidette. “So that is the problem.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The taste of humiliation on his tongue was as bitter as iron.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do not pretend to know better than I,” the Inspector snapped, lying back in the bed and pulling the covers up to his chin until they blotted out the view of the goshawk across the room. “You left. I intended to find my own death, and you abandoned me to it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Vidette responded, Javert could hear the weariness in her voice. “We have been through this. I left to find help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To find Valjean, you mean.” Sensing a faultline in her defenses, Javert probed harder. “Perhaps you prefer him, would rather be his daemon to be petted and prized. And well you should! He is a martyr—I am nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do not be a fool.” Now the goshawk just sounded nettled, and Javert found he could picture her, standing tall on the bundle of rags with her feathers flattened in annoyance. “Of anyone I could think of, only Valjean seemed like he might get through to you. You certainly were not listening to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The worst of it was that Javert could imagine such a thing; had Valjean appeared at his elbow in that moment before he jumped, speaking the same soft and cajoling words with which he persuaded the Inspector to eat broth, it was not impossible Javert might have stepped down. He had enough pride left to hope he would not have been so easily swayed, but Valjean would no doubt have then clasped his arm with the infamous strength of a brown bear, and guided him off of the ledge. For surely anyone who would dive into the Seine to preserve his life would prevent him from jumping if he could—what Javert still could not fathom was why.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It did not do to dwell on such matters; when he inevitably did, it only made him wish that he had succeeded at drowning, or that Valjean had shot him, or that this ‘rescue’ were merely revenge in another guise. His daemon had to know as much, but she was being deliberately belligerent to spite him, and Javert snorted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I say you liked having his hands on you,” he said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a crass imputation, intended to sting, for what sort of daemon would be glad to have another’s hands on her? It was wholly inappropriate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yet Vidette merely sniffed haughtily, and said, “Well, if I do, then it is only because you yourself welcome the touch of his hands, and we are one and the same.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shoving himself upright so quickly it left his head spinning, Javert growled, “Why, you -” but found himself unable to finish the phrase. He could only sit there, chest heaving, and wonder if it were true. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Besides,” Vidette continued after a moment’s silence, “I cannot say that I... enjoyed the experience.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Javert frowned, waiting for the explanation he could sense was coming. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was not... bad.” The goshawk looked at him with her red eyes, and involuntarily Javert shuddered. Once in a blue moon, some brigand had the idea of attacking his daemon to get the better of the Inspector, despite the penalties which existed for such assaults. Those moments were excruciating for both of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But neither was it good,” Vidette went on. “I much prefer when you scratch behind my ears at the end of a hunt. This was merely necessary. And I do not suppose I would allow such a thing again without your consent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And if you had my consent?” the Inspector asked flatly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then...” The bird cocked her head in consideration. “I suppose I might like you to show Valjean where best to scratch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Javert spluttered, stammering out, “I - You - You cannot just say such things! People will assume you are serious!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vidette seemed to huff with amusement as he lay down again, feeling his head spin with the effort of sitting. It was discourteous of her to tease him thus while he was unwell, Javert thought. Doubly so, to bring Valjean into it. But at least it was a jest—it had to be, for the notion that the most intimate part of himself might desire to be handled by a criminal was an anguish greater than his shattered mind could bear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yet as Javert prepared to drift into shallow and uneasy sleep, his eyes alighted upon the broken glass in front of the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Almost against his will, he found himself saying, “I will give Valjean my apologies when he returns. Does that satisfy you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vidette hummed. “Well,” she murmured, “it is a start.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Days turned to weeks, weeks to the first of what promised to be several long months, and Javert slowly recovered his strength. When asked forthrightly about the matter, the Inspector stated in a dull voice that he had no intentions of returning Valjean to prison. Equally baffling was the assertion that he had already submitted a letter resigning from his post as Inspector, and should no longer be addressed as such. Valjean had never known Javert to lie; it was apparent that some great change had shaken the man to the core. </p>
<p>In spite of, or perhaps because of this, Valjean walked around him as on eggshells. It was an uncanny thing to have his jailor and pursuer housed under his own roof, and despite the man’s statement to the contrary, there were times when it was only too easy to imagine Javert might yet turn him in. But if he did, Valjean supposed it would come as a sort of relief, or at least as a release from his other agonies—against all expectations, it appeared the young Baron would survive his wounds. </p>
<p>Thus, it was but a matter of time before Pontmercy would recover completely, and wish to wed Cosette. The prospect of her leaving darkened Valjean’s days and nights more so even than the black cloud of despair which Javert cast about his person. Wretched thoughts left him prone to melancholy, long spells of sitting in silence while Estée looked on in worry.</p>
<p>It was in one such mood that Valjean found himself seated at the dining table, staring into his cup of coffee while his other hand held the newspaper, unread. Cosette had pecked him on the cheek that morning before being escorted by Toussaint and a fresh roll of bandages to Rue des Filles du Calvaire. Valjean had not risen from his seat since. </p>
<p>As he contemplated the seemingly monumental task of lifting the cup to his lips, a heavy tread on the stairs captured his attention. Valjean paused at it, listening to the slow, methodical thud of boots as they descended from the bedroom. It took them a long time to approach; but then, the shadow loomed in the doorway, and Valjean looked up into Javert’s haggard face.</p>
<p>“Good morning,” the man rumbled, his words incongruent with the scowl that was a permanent fixture of his features. He leaned heavily on a cane, which Valjean had procured from his now-vacated apartment along with a few clothes.</p>
<p>Javert did not wait for a response, but moved towards a chair unprompted. He was preceded by the flutter of a blurred shape; the goshawk Vidette had indeed recovered use of her wing, for which Valjean was grateful—he did not think he could have looked Javert in the eye if his attempt at mending it had failed. Yet her weeks spent healing had left her diminished, and after much frustrated exercise she could still fly no farther than midway across the room without resting. </p>
<p>Perched on the back of a chair, Vidette cocked her head and waited for Javert to sit down. Even as he did so, Valjean was rising, the smooth mask of a courteous host covering over his sadness. </p>
<p>“Can I bring you anything?” he asked. “Tea? Coffee?”</p>
<p>“Coffee,” replied Javert. “And the newspaper, if you are finished with it.”</p>
<p>The newspaper was not even opened. “I am,” Valjean said, handing it over. </p>
<p>He left and returned presently with a second cup, which Javert accepted, then settled back into his seat somewhat at a loss. Where entertaining guests was concerned, Valjean was admittedly out of his depth, but Javert was a whole other matter. Valjean was not sure he was the kind of man to find entertainment in anything. But as the moment stretched, the erstwhile Inspector unfolded the paper, and in the absence of any conversation to distract him, Valjean settled gradually back into a tepid depression of spirit. </p>
<p>There was another flutter of feathers; Estée, who lay on the floor at Valjean’s side, raised her head to watch curiously as Vidette flew from the back of Javert’s chair to land gracelessly on the tabletop. Hastily, Valjean moved his cup and saucer aside before she could stumble into the hot coffee face-first, unbalanced as her wings spread slightly to catch herself. </p>
<p>“Ah. Good morning,” said Valjean uncertainly. The goshawk was looking up at him with her usual intent focus, which was less intimidating than it used to be. It was, Valjean had learned, just her way.</p>
<p>“Will you be working in the garden this afternoon?” the daemon asked. </p>
<p>“I thought I might,” Valjean replied, though he had thought no such thing. But upon reflection, some time spent in the garden did sound tolerable; and besides, the rose bushes would need trimming. </p>
<p>“Excellent.” Vidette straightened a few feathers on her front, then went on, “Perhaps we will join you.”</p>
<p>Without looking up from the newspaper, Javert said, “No.”</p>
<p>“Tch.” The goshawk turned around to face him, narrowly avoiding knocking over the cup again with her tail. Valjean slid it carefully to his opposite side. “Fresh air would do us good. And I would like to stretch my wings properly.”</p>
<p>“No,” Javert repeated, turning a page. </p>
<p>“Er.”</p>
<p>Valjean wrung his hands, sure of neither what to say nor do. He seldom argued with Estée, and when he did, the bear usually proved to have the right of it. Yet Javert seemed fully willing to bicker with his daemon at the breakfast table.</p>
<p>“Perhaps...” he offered haltingly, “I have a collection of books in the sitting room. Or a game of cards, if you -”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>.”</p>
<p>Valjean could not help but cringe at that vehement word; sometimes, Javert sharpened his speech like a spear intended to wound, and sometimes, Valjean thought perhaps it was he who jumped far too easily at minor provocations. He knew not what it was in this instance, only that Vidette had certainly noticed. Her narrow head flashed around to him as quickly as a hunting bird sighting movement in blades of grass, which did nothing to lessen the vestigial fear of the galley slave rising in Valjean’s throat. He felt so trapped in that house—all the walls pressed in around him claustrophobically—</p>
<p>A heavy weight landed in his lap. </p>
<p>Valjean blinked to find he was clutching his coffee cup in such a grip it was liable to shatter, his breath coming in short little spurts. In his panic, Estée had sat up, draping the full bulk of her head over Valjean’s knees, and was looking at him with a wide, doleful gaze. Her presence was grounding; Valjean scratched the top of her head gently as he chased the unwelcome ghosts out from behind his eyelids.</p>
<p>Across the table, Javert was absorbed in his newspaper, ignorant to the results of his truculent manner. The bird, however, was still observing Valjean motionlessly. It was just her way, the man reminded himself, stroking again through Estée’s thick fur. Even so, Valjean wished she would return to Javert; he got the sense that she saw too well how he was affected.</p>
<p>Then, far from picking at his weakness like the scab from a wound, Vidette scoffed indignantly in Javert’s direction and approached to stand beside Valjean’s hand.</p>
<p>“You must try to ignore him,” the goshawk said. “He knows I am right, and it makes him irritable.”</p>
<p>Valjean hesitated, frowning. “Right about what?”</p>
<p>If he were not mistaken, the tips of Javert’s ears began to color at that, but the man’s face remained glued impassively to his reading. Neither he nor the daemon provided an answer; Valjean looked between the two of them, and got nothing for his trouble save more questions. </p>
<p>The goshawk returned to parading back and forth in front of Valjean’s place at the table as though he had not spoken.</p>
<p>“Yes, fresh air would be best,” Vidette muttered to herself. “A walk around the garden, with stops in the shade. I can fly to the tree branches.”</p>
<p>Each track across the weathered wood brought her very close to where Valjean’s hand lay on the table’s surface. Were she his own daemon, he might reach out to idly stroke her back—but Vidette was Javert’s, was Javert <em> himself</em>, as vital and inextricable a part of the prickly policeman as any other. Strange, then, that she stood as near as she did. Stranger still was that Valjean did not hardly mind her proximity—despite his anxieties, he took a measure of comfort in knowing the daemon did not fear to stand within his reach. </p>
<p>Pausing so close that Valjean could almost feel the heat from her avian body, Vidette asked, “Will the lady of the house be joining us today?”</p>
<p>Valjean started, his nerves jangling at any mention of Cosette. It was crucial Javert should be kept away from her; he distrusted the man to hold his tongue of the bagne or Fantine’s occupation or the years spent on the run. The irony of it was that with Pontmercy’s convalescence, Cosette was absent more often than not, so in that regard Valjean had gotten his wish. </p>
<p>“Not today,” Valjean said when he found his voice. “She has gone with the housekeeper to sit at the bedside of her betrothed.”</p>
<p>Vidette hummed, tapping her foot. “You are unhappy about their engagement,” she said slyly. “Well, who could blame you—that insurgent of hers is a nitwit, regardless of how good a social match -”</p>
<p>“Vidette,” Javert interjected. He did not look up, but his knuckles tightened on the newspaper warningly. </p>
<p>“- and he is a radical.” The goshawk’s hiss of disdain said precisely what she thought of that. “Why do you not put a stop to it? Even Javert has noted your displeasure. Why, just earlier this morning, he was saying that -”</p>
<p>“Vidette!” Javert slapped the paper down on the tabletop and pushed out his chair.</p>
<p>Turning to Valjean, he said through clenched teeth, “Please pardon my daemon. She is ruthless when she does not get her way.” He staggered upright on his cane, limping over to where Vidette now sat demurely rearranging her feathers. Holding his arm out stiffly, Javert waited with ill grace for the bird to hop to her place, then turned and made for the door. </p>
<p>“What was it you wanted?” Valjean heard him growl. “The garden?” </p>
<p>Javert and Vidette passed from view into the hall, trailing the sound of voices, and several minutes later there was the creak of the rear door opening and shutting. </p>
<p>“Those two are a mystery to me,” Estée murmured, rising to peer down the hall after them. “I mean, what is one to make of that?”</p>
<p>Valjean shook his head, staring in the direction Javert disappeared. He knew nothing of what went on in the man’s head, less so now it seemed than ever. And Vidette... her motives were equally as obscure to him. But Valjean found himself wondering, as he collected the dishes and returned them to the kitchen, just what it was that Javert had said to Vidette that morning. It must have been something of consequence, he reasoned, for Javert to react so. </p>
<p>Later he would go into the garden and trim the rose bushes, and Javert would pace circuits around the yard, and Valjean would want to ask him of it. But he would not ask, not that day, nor the next, nor for many days after that.</p>
<hr/>
<p>It was hardly the first night they had fallen into bed together, though this unforeseen amendment to their friendship was still too new for the novelty to have worn off in its entirety. Privately Valjean did not know that it ever would; the notion that he might hold Javert to his chest, might kiss those oft-downturned lips until they quirked into a smile, that he would find himself wanting for such things, or that Javert should want them in return—it was too much to be believed. If anyone had told him during the long twilight days following Cosette’s marriage that he would know such happiness, Valjean would have brushed the sentiment aside as impossible.</p>
<p>Yet even now they were lying side by side in the sheets, Javert’s large hand curled over Valjean’s hip. Valjean needed only to press against him to feel the excitement burning in Javert’s blood, the cascade of emotion running just below the surface that the man did not dare let show except in flashes, lightning upon his countenance. Valjean nestled his head under his lover’s chin, mouthing at the column of his throat, and Javert rumbled with appreciation. He stroked his fingers through Valjean’s hair, allowing him leave to mark his skin as Valjean saw fit.</p>
<p>In the dim candlelight, Javert glowed like a carving in amber, sweat shimmering on the planes of his arms and chest that were not covered by dark swathes of hair. Upon the headboard, Vidette kept watch, her eyes bright as jewels, while on the floor, Estée sprawled like an over-large dog, a silent menagerie to witness their lovemaking. It would have felt more natural for all of them had the daemons lay curled up together, as their humans did upon the bedsheets, but Vidette was flighty; no sooner did she seem to settle somewhere than she took off again.</p>
<p>Perhaps the cause was in the newness of the present arrangement, so alike and yet so unlike other nights full of coy touches and fumbling hands. When Javert had proposed—bluntly, and without dissembling—that he was prepared to submit himself in the interests of advancing their mutual intercourse, Valjean had flushed to the roots of his white hair, but had felt his heart fill near to bursting that Javert would want it so. His lips on the man’s neck were merely the prelude, his fingers between trembling thighs slowly working Javert open. </p>
<p>Already, Valjean felt Javert’s breath heaving against his chest. There was no need to rush, Valjean wanted to say—if there was one thing he would have liked to remedy, it was that at times, Javert seemed overcome by a nervous energy, one which began in haste and ended in embarrassment. For a man to whom respectability was paramount, it was no small thing to come undone, not even in the sanctuary of their bed with no-one but Valjean to see. Valjean would give him that peace if he could—and no sound was sweeter on his ear than Javert’s muffled groans, which fell out at every twist of his fingers. </p>
<p>When all of Javert was shaking like a leaf, tense as a tightly wound spring, Valjean let his fingers slide free of the slick gap they had made; Javert clung to him as though an abyss might swallow him up at any moment, his formidable grip belied by the way his eyes were screwed shut with desperation. Bending forward to kiss him, Valjean brushed a strand of hair from Javert’s cheek—and Vidette took off from the headboard, flying frantic loops around the ceiling before landing in a heap on the washstand. Javert’s eyes fluttered open.</p>
<p>“Wait,” he bit out, his brow furrowing.</p>
<p>“It’s alright,” Valjean murmured, smoothing the wrinkles from his mouth. “I have you.”</p>
<p>“No,” Javert muttered, pushing himself up on his elbow. “Wait—”</p>
<p>With a sinking feeling, Valjean remembered all the misgivings that had made him hesitant to allow this thing between them in the first place—that they would fail to learn gentleness with one another, that a lifetime of chastity would leave him unable to meet Javert’s needs, that Javert might one day realize that he deserved better than to share an old convict’s bed. Perhaps that day had finally arrived. </p>
<p>Yet before Valjean could do more than pull back, Javert pecked him quickly on the lips and sat upright.</p>
<p>“A moment, that is all.” Crawling forward on his knees, Javert dragged the top sheet with him, securing it around his midriff as he wriggled out of the bed. He stumbled across the floor, narrowly avoiding piles of discarded garments, and made his way to the chest of drawers.</p>
<p>“Put the damn thing here somewhere,” he muttered to himself, rifling through the folded clothes until his hand shut over something small. </p>
<p>“Vidette,” Javert said, “come.” </p>
<p>He held out his arm, heedless of the fact that his ubiquitous leather gauntlets lay somewhere in the mess on the floor, and Vidette flew to him. If her talons dug into his skin, he gave no sign of it, but fit the object of his search over her head—the hood, Valjean realized. He had seen the man fashion a new one after the river, though if he were honest, Valjean did not entirely understand its purpose.</p>
<p>When it was fastened, Javert set Vidette down gently at Estée’s side. Immediately, the bear nuzzled her affectionately with her snout and Vidette gave a contented click of her beak, dark feathers puffing out as she settled. Then Javert climbed back onto the mattress, and something in Valjean’s chest eased.</p>
<p>“Your pardon,” Javert said, not quite able to meet his eyes. “Her senses are very keen. And I am unacquainted with such touch, it is...” He left the sentence hanging, but the spasm of his hand on his knee and the color on his cheeks finished it for him. “We overwhelm each other,” he said instead. “The covering helps us.”</p>
<p>“You should have told me,” Valjean murmured. “I could have reminded you.”</p>
<p>Javert shook his head jerkily. “It oughtn’t be necessary,” he mumbled. “We are full grown, not some half-witted youths who -” He stopped as Valjean raised a hand to cup his jaw, and though his lips remained pursed, some of the chagrin faded from his eyes. </p>
<p>Instead, he reached up to clasp Valjean’s fingers in his own, slipping something into his palm. A fresh blush of color rose to Javert’s cheeks, but he said evenly, “I believe you were, ah, in the middle of something.”</p>
<p>Looking over, Valjean found himself blushing in turn as he beheld the vial of oil, procured earlier from the pantry—Javert must have plucked it from where it rolled in the bedsheets. All at once, his throat felt dry. </p>
<p>“Yes,” Valjean said hoarsely. </p>
<p>Leaning forward, he took Javert gently by the shoulders and laid him back against the mattress. Javert went easily, though when Valjean paused for a moment to simply observe, the man’s features bent into an exasperated scowl. Valjean only found the results charming, which he rather doubted was the intended effect; yet how could Javert fault him for wanting to savor this, when time and circumstance had so long worked to divide them? </p>
<p>Besides, Javert was handsome. To some, the austere lips, prominent nose, and bristling whiskers gave rise to the impression of a feral dog, and indeed Valjean had spent much of his life fearing to see that face loom over his shoulder. But now, he could not help but find it altogether wondrous—love, in its wisdom, made all things beautiful.</p>
<p>Bending down, Valjean brushed his smiling mouth to Javert’s. Old fool that he was, he knew not how to keep his joy from radiating all over his face. Beneath him, Javert was pliant and still, the soothing effect of the hood not to be denied as his daemon transmitted calm. His shoulders eased, his hands unclenched from the sheets, and while Valjean gently spread his thighs apart, Javert hooked his ankle around Valjean’s waist. The man blinked slowly, with the affect of one half-dreaming—out of the corner of his eye, Valjean beheld Estée grooming Vidette’s feathers with a wide pink tongue, laving at her in firm but careful strokes. </p>
<p>All told, it was much improved over the half-anguished clutching and trembling of before; yet when Valjean took the vial in hand, preparing to avail his fingers of more oil, something in Javert’s face shifted. It was a cloaked and subtle change, a buried hesitation that Valjean knew this man would sooner leave unvoiced. But to know the concern was there and still to let it lie would be a betrayal he could not abide. </p>
<p>“What troubles you?” Valjean asked lowly, returning his hands to his sides. “Let us not pretend you do not know what I mean.”</p>
<p>“It is nothing of consequence,” Javert muttered, self-conscious under the weight of Valjean’s gaze.</p>
<p>“If you have changed your mind -”</p>
<p>“Valjean.” </p>
<p>Taken aback, Valjean found Javert staring at him with an expression torn between miffed and mildly amused. </p>
<p>“I assure you,” the man said dryly, “I have never been more disinclined to change my mind on anything.”</p>
<p>More quietly, Javert passed a hand over his face and sighed. Then, looking anywhere but at Valjean, he continued. “I cannot relax, that is all. I have tried. But every time I think I have succeeded, I... you...” His eyes squeezed shut, Javert’s jaw tightening as though to hold back the inevitable tide of embarrassment.</p>
<p>“I want...” he croaked, “...to please you. But we are both—inexperienced in these matters. My nerves are inconsequential to -”</p>
<p>“Peace,” Valjean murmured, and Javert shivered as though that word touched a memory deep within his soul. “Stay—I will only be a moment.”</p>
<p>Extricating himself from their tangle of limbs, Valjean tiptoed his way to where his clothes were scattered on the floor. He had an idea, one which was growing in his mind into a nebulous but increasing certainty. Bending, he retrieved his cravat from the pile, wrinkled with use and in need of an ironing, though perhaps not as much so as it would be hereafter.</p>
<p>As Valjean climbed back into bed, Javert frowned at the long strip of white linen, his brows pinching together with a deep groove. He said nothing, however, but waited for an explanation. </p>
<p>“Your words before made me wonder,” Valjean began. “Do you think -” He wet his lips. “Do you think it would be better if I bound your eyes? You need not say yes,” he added hurriedly. “And forgive me if this is inappropriate, I merely wondered...”</p>
<p>For a long moment, Javert was inscrutable as he seemed to weigh Valjean’s suggestion. </p>
<p>“Well,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “I am hardly a bird, but you are welcome to try.”</p>
<p>At that, Valjean fought to suppress a laugh; Javert’s curt manner was all bluster, concealing his insecurity below a mask of indifference, but Valjean had learned to read him quite plain. Caressing his chin, Valjean kissed Javert’s eyelids shut, first the left, and then the right. He took the cravat and carefully wrapped it over the man’s face, securing the long tails in back of his head before bringing them to the front again to cross in a second pass. Only when Javert was thoroughly blindfolded did he knot off the ends, then sit back to admire his handiwork.</p>
<p>Against the flush of Javert’s skin, the cravat was a stark slash of white. The man seemed to take a moment to grow accustomed to the sensation of sightlessness, his fingers trailing aimlessly over the bedclothes as though to reassure himself of where he was. On the floor, Estée and Vidette had also paused in their courtship; Valjean wondered if even now, Vidette were coaching Javert through the connection they shared on how to adjust to the world in the dark.</p>
<p>Then Javert clicked his tongue impatiently and practically demanded, “Now what?”</p>
<p>Smothering a fond smile, Valjean lowered Javert back against the mattress once more; at first he kept his hands grasping at Valjean’s shoulders, but after a moment they fell away and Javert groaned aloud. A glance to the side provided the cause; Vidette was spread eagle on the floor, her wings outstretched, while on her chest, Estée’s paw held her delicately but inescapably pinned.</p>
<p>“I can tell her to let up,” Valjean murmured in Javert’s ear as he settled between the man’s legs.</p>
<p>“No,” Javert managed, his hips stuttering. “Valjean, please -”</p>
<p>Heat rushed to Valjean’s belly; when had Javert ever pleaded for anything? His fingers made quick work of the oil, and then they were sinking together, together, two wholes joined into more than the sum of their parts.</p>
<p>With that first push inside, Javert gasped against his skin, turning his face into the crook of Valjean’s neck. Valjean could scarcely stifle his own groan, the heat and the closeness like nothing he had imagined. Javert was his—so utterly his it made him dizzy even to conceive of it. For so long, this man had been blind, both to mercy and to love, but now that Javert was blinded in truth he seemed to find his way to these and more. Valjean was no falconer; yet how Javert must have trusted him to allow this, when he could only have felt as though he were falling backwards into nothing.</p>
<p>Later, Valjean reflected wryly that they were not young men. The hushed cries and sloppy kisses could continue only so long before they led to a deeper hitch of breath, a quaking of body and spirit, and then resolve in an ending which was at once overpowering and utterly commonplace. So base a thing should not feel as sacred as prayer; yet Valjean could think of no other word to ascribe the deep wellspring of endearment which bubbled up every time he thought on what they had done. </p>
<p>Perhaps he ought to have risen at once, fetching rags and returning the pair of them to some state of propriety. He ought to have unwound the cloth from Javert’s eyes, and let the man’s pride forget it was necessary. Yet Valjean found himself utterly incapable of moving. He could only pull the sheets closer and let Javert’s arms wrap tentatively around his waist. That was how they spent the night, hunter and hunted having found the other’s embrace at last.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the hottest day of June, a year and a week since that bleak night Javert was first carried into Valjean’s household. The afternoon was sweltering, a sultry yellow glow spilling through the curtained windows over the nape of Javert’s neck. He held a book in his left hand, though it was now overturned on the seat beside him. Those thoughts which buzzed in his head had the sensual, sluggish quality of molasses, reduced by the heat until they were almost not thoughts at all.</p>
<p>It had been pleasant enough to sit on the settee and pretend to read—though the activity itself was not one Javert enjoyed, the presence of the book made it possible to watch Valjean unnoticed over the top of the pages. Or at least, he had thought himself unnoticed; apparently he was more transparent than he intended, for moments ago Valjean had risen from his armchair only to cross the short gap between them and sit against his side.</p>
<p>“Ah.” Javert wet his lips, looking down the bridge of his nose at their sudden proximity. “Can I do something for you?”</p>
<p>His question was answered for him when Valjean lifted a hand and laid it shyly on his thigh. A breath shivered out of Javert’s lips at that; how comfortable they had grown with these little intimacies of late. Too comfortable, perhaps, if it led Valjean to this.  </p>
<p>Clearing his throat, Javert nodded meaningfully at the open window and began, “Would it not be wiser to...?” </p>
<p>“You have been thinking of it,” Valjean interrupted. The man’s fingers slid around to stroke the inner seam of his trousers, caressing the tailoring light enough to sprout gooseflesh on Javert’s arms. “I mean, just look at Vidette.”</p>
<p>Javert raised his head automatically. Across the room, Vidette was crouched on the perch Valjean had commissioned for her. Her tail feathers splayed out, and she bobbed slightly against the wood in brief struts. The goshawk flashed Javert a look of resentment, as if to say this mood of hers was the result of his own straying thoughts.</p>
<p>Clearing his throat, Javert swallowed and said, “I suppose it is possible my mind... wandered.”</p>
<p>And so what if it had? This would hardly be the first time his ideas had turned indecorous while watching Valjean about the house. In the afternoon sun, the man’s face looked like that of one ten years his junior, the soft white of his hair turning to gossamer threads as the rays shone through it. Javert had felt such devotion to only one other thing in his entire life, and his work had never inspired in him the same bewildering rush of warmth. </p>
<p>Then there was another part of Javert, one which had come to learn the physical presence of Valjean’s body very well; it was not at all displeased by the flirtatious path of Valjean’s fingers.</p>
<p>Below Vidette’s perch, Estée lolled enjoying the sunshine. Rolling playfully onto her back, the brown bear put her paws up in the air as Vidette glided down to stand on her exposed belly instead. The casual brazenness of their frequent touching ought to have been discouraged; after all, he and Valjean were beyond the age for such coquetry. But before he could reprimand his daemon, Javert drew breath sharply, twisting back around to face Valjean as the man shifted positions once more to straddle his lap. </p>
<p>“Valjean,” Javert protested weakly. “If anyone should come to the door -”</p>
<p>“Who?” Valjean asked, his cheeks dimpling in a way which was far too innocent given what he was implying. “Cosette has not sent word of a visit, and Toussaint comes tomorrow to clean.” </p>
<p>“A... a postman,” Javert suggested, heat spreading over his face as Valjean put his hands on his hips. “A messenger, a... by God, anyone from the Prefecture...” </p>
<p>“Well then,” said Valjean, “if someone should knock, we simply will not answer.”</p>
<p>Pinned to the settee by Valjean’s thighs, Javert could only issue an inarticulate grunt in response as Valjean leaned forward to kiss him. His mouth worked slowly over Javert’s, unhurried in the summer heat, and it was not without some satisfaction that Javert realized he could not have been the only one thinking of such things. Valjean moved with intent, his hand rising to card through Javert’s hair and fit them closer together. </p>
<p>Smiling crookedly against Valjean’s lips, Javert reached to clasp around his backside, which was taut with muscle that persisted even after the long and fraught spring. He was tempted to put his hands elsewhere, but not so tempted that it stopped him from sliding down onto the seat cushion, pulling Valjean on top of him. Now the room turned stifling—Javert’s waistcoat was stuck to his back with sweat—but Valjean had not ceased the soft motions of his mouth, and Javert would sooner die than interrupt. </p>
<p>Shifting his knees slightly, Javert allowed Valjean’s thigh to press between them; the friction lit up his nerves and brought a groan to his tongue, as did the revelation that Valjean was also hard with wanting. The knowledge did nothing to redouble his efforts; some unspoken rule insisted on taking their time. Yet it lent a new intensity to their hapless groping, and when the man’s teeth grazed over his jaw, Javert slid his hand between them to palm lightly at the fork of Valjean’s trousers.</p>
<p>“Javert,” Valjean mumbled into his shirt collar, leaving a trail of kisses down his neck. </p>
<p>“Jean,” Javert returned. He brushed a stray curl from Valjean’s face, damp with perspiration. It really was too hot for this, he decided, but the idea of stopping—or unbuttoning his shirt, or indeed doing anything other than lazily kissing Valjean breathless—was unthinkable. His lips found Valjean’s stubble, and across the room, Estée let out a happy little whine.</p>
<p>Angling his head to peer at the daemon pair, Javert watched Vidette painstakingly groom the bear’s thick fur, pulling clumps of it through her beak as though it were feathers. The sight gave him the absurd desire to comb his fingers through Valjean’s hair again—when had he become so sentimental? He was like a doting old grandfather; and soon, Valjean would be one in truth, for Cosette was due to have a child by Christmas. Perhaps in that long-distant memory when Valjean bound Vidette’s wing, he had touched more of Javert’s soul than either of them realized.</p>
<p>The idea lingered, as heavy as the humid air. Turning it over in his thoughts, Javert drew Valjean back into an open-mouthed kiss, admitting the tentative touch of the man’s tongue. He wanted to hold Valjean fast, to be closer than close, to place in Valjean’s hands all the trust which he had so completely earned. Already there was an illicit terror and ecstasy in doing something this foolish in full sight of the window, which itself was not so hard to see from the gate; the thrill of it hummed in his veins like the nectar of forbidden fruit. And it made him want for other intimacies, some of them too shameful even to imagine, much less to speak.</p>
<p>Yet the heat softened his resolve like butter, blurring the line between the acceptable and the taboo until Javert at last turned his head aside to say roughly, “Vidette.”</p>
<p>There was a flapping of wings as the goshawk alighted on the arm of the settee. Valjean sat back on his haunches respectfully, allowing Javert the space to talk, but space was the opposite of what he desired. Putting out his hand for Vidette to step to, Javert propped himself against the armrest and held her out.</p>
<p>“Touch her.” He had intended the words to be offhanded; they came out anything but.</p>
<p>Valjean blinked, first with confusion and then with a more pronounced concern as he understood just what Javert was saying.</p>
<p>“I—surely you don’t—Javert, you cannot mean -”</p>
<p>“I mean it,” Javert interrupted. His throat felt raw; already, he was having second thoughts, but Vidette looked at Valjean placidly, without hesitation or fear, and he knew he did not regret asking. “She likes you,” he continued. “And I—well, you must know my feelings by now.”</p>
<p>Valjean’s throat worked soundlessly for several minutes as he composed himself. The instant he made up his mind, Javert could see it on his face. Slowly, Valjean held out his trembling fingers.</p>
<p>Seeming to consider the man before her, Vidette turned her head sideways. Then she stepped forward onto Valjean’s proffered hand, and two things happened at once: Javert’s arm dropped heavily back to his side, and the rest of his body went utterly slack. That mere sliver of contact between Vidette’s scaly feet and Valjean’s bare skin blanketed his thoughts, not so much driving them from his head as flattening them under an insurmountable weight. He could not move, could not speak, could do nothing but lie prone in a dumb stupor.</p>
<p>Then Valjean’s free hand rose to stroke two fingers cautiously down Vidette’s back, and the “<em>Oh</em>” which wrenched free of Javert’s lips was scarcely even a word.</p>
<p>Immediately, Valjean withdrew his hand, his eyes shining wide. “Should I stop?” he asked.</p>
<p>Still unable to make anything sensible come out of his mouth, Javert resorted to shaking his head emphatically no. His apprehension was even more palpable than before, but Valjean returned to stroking the daemon, and Javert blanched at the shock of it. It was as though Valjean had reached down his throat to tenderly caress his insides; nothing they did in the bedroom could ever feel so intimate, for this was the whole of Javert’s personhood, handled with such a reverence that it sprung tears to his eyes. </p>
<p>Writhing helplessly on the seat cushion, Javert’s hands sought for purchase, but found none. He could only watch with glazed eyes as Vidette’s feathers puffed out, surely as astounded as Javert himself was, but delighted to allow Valjean to continue. </p>
<p>Like a thunderclap, a single thought broke through Javert’s state. Forcing the words out between deep panting breaths, he said, “Back of her head—she likes to be... scratched.”</p>
<p>For a moment, Valjean merely stared at him, nonplussed. Then he raised his hand to the back of Vidette’s head, and buried his fingertips in the feathers there. At once there was a low keening noise, which took Javert several moments to understand he was making. Terrifying and ecstatic—it was the only way he could describe it; on one side, the realization that a slight twist of Valjean’s fingers would break his goshawk’s neck and kill them both; on the other, the unshakable certainty that Valjean would sooner die himself than let such a thing happen.</p>
<p>Valjean’s attentions were likewise beginning to have other effects: pleased with the petting she was receiving, Vidette’s eyelids began to droop. Soon, the parallel need for rest pressed against Javert’s eyes as well. He fought it at first, struggling against this last, most complete surrender, but as the stiffness unwound from his muscles, as Vidette gave over to Valjean’s soothing, Javert found himself powerless to resist. The world beyond grew fainter and fainter, and the last thing Javert knew was the soft brush of lips against his own, just once. Then sleep fell over him wholly, and Javert sank into its sweet release.</p><hr/>
<p>It was late night, or perhaps very early morning. Moments ago, Javert had woken suddenly, strangely alert in spite of the hour. His first thought was for Vidette, but Javert could make out the black shape of her, sleeping comfortably with one foot on her perch. His second thought, as he collected his wits, was for Valjean—and that proved a harder concern to remedy, for when Javert turned his head, he found the space next to his empty.</p>
<p>The sheets were still warm, as though Valjean’s ghost stayed put while his body wandered elsewhere. Javert shook the notion off as a stray fancy—no doubt Valjean had gone to relieve himself, and would return shortly. It was a reasonable explanation, but one which failed to stick; his instinct prickled with a sense of dis-ease. And then, he heard the noise, so soft in the quiet that he was not even sure he had heard it at all.</p>
<p>Sitting up, Javert searched the gloom. The window shutters were open to admit what scant breeze there was, and with it came the light of the waxing moon. It fell over the floorboards, a pale, diffuse gleaming that more lengthened the shadows than dispersed them. Below the sill, Estée was nested on her large cushion, a formless blot silhouetted against the wall. The sight of her eased some of Javert’s nerves; if the daemon were here, Valjean could not be far from hand. But the noise came again, a sort of muffled grieving, and as the bear raised her leg, Javert discovered Valjean at last.</p>
<p>The man was bent over Estée’s bulk, wearing nothing but his thin cotton nightshirt. His hands bunched in the daemon’s fur, and Javert could see quite plainly how his shoulders were wracked with silent tears. Any calm Javert felt dried up, leaving a hollow, sick feeling in its wake.</p>
<p>Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Javert rested the pads of his feet upon the floor as lightly as a panther. But he did not stand, not yet—for without knowing the cause of Valjean’s despair, Javert could not be certain he would not add to it. </p>
<p>“Valjean?” he inquired softly.</p>
<p>At the sound of his voice, Valjean stilled. Without raising his head, he said into Estée’s shoulder, “I did not mean to wake you.”</p>
<p>“You did not,” replied Javert, without even knowing whether it was true. Had some quiet noise of Valjean’s startled him from slumber? Or was it a sixth sense, one grown attuned to the man’s moods, to his comings and goings, which understood that something was not right? </p>
<p>Now Valjean did straighten, wiping his eyes, though he still did not turn to Javert. “It is nothing,” he said. “A dream. Go back to sleep, I will join you soon.”</p>
<p><em> A dream. </em>Javert could only imagine what terrible figments would drive this man to weeping. Guilt, his old acquaintance, wrapped around his insides like a serpent. It made no difference whether Javert himself were among the visions haunting his lover’s rest; some part of him would always belong to those past horrors. What he was not responsible for, Javert had condoned, and he was responsible for plenty. </p>
<p>The bedstead creaked as Javert stood. For a moment, he wavered, glancing at the door—did he even have the right to be there, or was it better that he leave Valjean to his private grief? In the end, the answer was clear. Javert knelt at Valjean's side, folding his legs beneath him. </p>
<p>“Does this happen often?” he murmured. The thought that there might have been other nights like this, nights when Javert failed to notice Valjean’s pain, twisted something deep in his chest. </p>
<p>“No.” It was Estée who answered. “It is the first time in many months.”</p>
<p>Javert swallowed, wishing for a glass of water or perhaps something stronger. He was little skilled in offering solace; that was Valjean’s gift, not his. How did one comfort the comforter?</p>
<p>Stumbling over a leaden tongue, Javert began, “Would it... Would you...” </p>
<p>During his recovery, there had been days and nights when the river seemed to inhabit his mind, churning his self-loathing and disgust into a frothing maelstrom. At those times, Valjean would sit by and ask him to tell of it, a request which Javert inevitably denied. Then Valjean would quietly read from a book, and some days—some days, Javert found he began to speak in spite of himself. It was often awkward, and never pleasant, but like poison drawn from a wound it served to slowly quell the raging waters of thought. </p>
<p>“Valjean,” he tried again, the words falling out more quickly, “if you should wish to talk, I will listen.”</p>
<p>Valjean shuddered, staring down at his lap. For a long while, he did not respond, until the silence stretched so far as to become oppressive. Then, he sighed, a deep and tired sound. </p>
<p>“Why now, Javert?” he murmured. “Why today, of all days—I have been nowhere but the garden, seen no-one, no police—there is no reason for it.”</p>
<p>Javert fumbled for an answer, but Valjean did not seem to expect one.</p>
<p>“All I can see is that place,” he said. Javert did not have to ask which one. “Every time I close my eyes it is there—I woke, and for a minute I knew not where I was.”</p>
<p>With a horrible dearth of emotion, Valjean continued, “I had dared to hope that I was free of it—ever since you came into my bed, it has grown easier. But I see now I was mistaken. You should go back to sleep—there is nothing you can do for me. It will pass by morning.”</p>
<p>Javert opened his mouth, an objection already poised to spill forth. If he slept after hearing that hopeless confession, he would truly know himself irredeemable. But before he could speak a word of this aloud, he was interrupted.</p>
<p>“Of course he can do nothing, if you will not let him try.” Estée tossed her head, her fur rippling in the moonlight. “You know my thoughts on the matter.”</p>
<p>“I do not see what good it would do,” whispered Valjean.</p>
<p>The brown bear shifted, seeming to frown at him with her small eyes. “Maybe none. Maybe more than you know.” Turning to Javert, she said, “You wish to help?”</p>
<p>Javert nodded—anything they asked of him, either of them, Javert would do in a heartbeat.</p>
<p>“Then hold out your hand.”</p>
<p>Perplexed, Javert did what he was bid, raising his hand in front of him. Estée sniffed the air as if to somehow gauge whether he was genuine; then with a stubborn grunt, she lowered her head and thrust it against Javert’s open palm. </p>
<p>The instant that fur met his hand, Javert froze in disbelief. He was not prepared—and how could Estée think to do such a vulnerable thing when Valjean was already in distress? The choked whimper he made at their first touch would be imprinted on Javert’s ear forever. Yet Estée did not withdraw. She leaned into Javert’s hand, and Javert, as unable to pull away as he was to proceed, very hesitantly patted the top of her head.</p>
<p>At his side, another small whimper escaped Valjean’s trembling lips, but the bear simply hummed and shuffled closer, almost knocking Javert to the floor as she put her whole head insistently against his chest. Though he could not see how it was meant to help, Javert was unable deny her; and so gradually his uncertain pats became cautious scratches, behind the ear and under the jaw and down the back of her neck. </p>
<p>By the soft snuffles and grunts, he judged that Estée was pleased with his efforts. Had it been otherwise, Javert doubted whether he could have gone on. Yet bit by bit, he found it came more naturally, the coarseness of her pelt so different from Vidette’s feathers that he could not help but run his fingers through it. Her ears were soft, Javert discovered, but the body beneath it was solid as a brick wall. No doubt Valjean drew on his daemon’s strength—or perhaps it was the other way around. And there was something else, a subtle anbaric current which played over his fingertips as if to remind him that they were disparate beings, as unintended to mingle as oil and water.</p>
<p>Had Valjean felt the same when he touched Vidette? There was something hypnotic about holding another’s soul in his hands; it was a privilege Javert did not feel he had any right to, but Estée willed it so, and that moved him beyond words. He lifted his head, intending to ask Valjean about the tingling of his hands, but in his distraction he had failed to notice something crucial—namely, that Valjean was slumped loosely against Estée’s side, staring into the middle distance as tears ran silently down his cheeks.</p>
<p>At once, the fear gripped Javert that he had crossed a boundary for which he could not be forgiven. “Valjean?” he asked uncertainly, taking his hand from Estée’s scruff without hesitation.</p>
<p>The daemon, however, was unimpressed by his change of heart. As Javert pulled away, she growled low in her throat and thrust her head again under Javert’s fingers—and in so doing, grazed his skin against a rigid scar buried deep in the folds of her neck. </p>
<p>The change was immediate; Estée froze and Valjean cried out softly, his voice so broken Javert almost could not stand it. But when he went once more to withdraw, the bear growled a second time. With her teeth at the level of his throat, Javert was disinclined to test her—his hand stayed where it was. </p>
<p>By now, Valjean was well and truly crumpled into a pile, nearly insensate under the weight of Javert’s hand upon old wounds. There was a prickling in the back of Javert’s eyes at the sight; he had ruined everything, everything they had struggled to build; and still Estée was pressed against him.</p>
<p>For want of any words to express the depth of his regret, Javert instead traced the wicked marks gently with his thumb. Whether from chain or iron collar, he was sick at the thought that human hands had ever so bound this creature. But what could he say, what apology could he make, when he was in no small way complicit? </p>
<p>Valjean groaned, rolling onto his side. At any moment, he would order Javert away, and that would be the end of it. He did not know where he would go if Valjean did not want him, but that was his own concern, and one which he accepted with grim resignation. </p>
<p>Yet when Valjean looked up at him, it was with neither anger nor hatred. Instead, the man reached out to grasp Javert shakily by the arm, pulling him forward into a bruising kiss. Their lips touched, Valjean’s face still damp with saltwater tears, and Javert’s weary heart was assuaged; perhaps the boundary crossed was a necessary one. Even old wounds could fester, left too long unacknowledged.</p>
<p>Together, the pair tumbled to the floor, landing in a tangle of limbs and unsteady laughter. Estée made herself a pillow for their heads, and Vidette kept watch over their bodies as Javert held Valjean tight to his chest. Despite the darkness, Valjean’s eyes shone, full with the light of being completely known at last.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There you are, Vin, I hope you enjoyed!!! My deepest thanks to Ias for her encouragement, brainstorming, and voracious demand for content which kept me writing. xD</p>
<p>A brief note on the daemon names I chose...... Vidette is commonly cited as meaning "beloved", which I thought had a certain irony, and at least one (admittedly dubious) source put it down as meaning "from the guard tower". Estée is the French form of Esther, who was the Abrahamic queen who changed her name and went into hiding.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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